Promises we shouldn't keep
by Cheesespread
Summary: Bond is missing, but he always manages to find his way back to Q. Two part story, then a series of prompts!


Q sat at his desk, mind unfocused on his current task, even as his fingers tapped away furiously on the keyboard in front of him. Q branch was silent, save for the whirring of machinery; his assistants for the most part were avoiding him, talking in hushed voices. Even Tanner, who was always quick to greet the young quartermaster, seemed to think better than trying to start a conversation with him this morning.

It should have concerned him, should have bothered him a little bit, but none of it seemed to matter. In the controlled chaos that was MI-6 , there was only one thing that occupied his mind. James Bond was missing. That one sentence was enough to make Q's stomach drop to his feet and cause his heart to pound.

A routine assignment in Paris and Bond had all but disappeared from the face of the earth. After a week with no word, no demands and no ransom M had deemed it serious, sending two agents into the field. Q had equipped them with everything he could, they had been good men. Now one had been returned to them in a wooden box. The other had washed up on the coast, well what was left of him anyway.

Q, along with everybody else didn't know what to do. There were no leads to chase, no codes to crack. It had been three weeks and everything boiled down to finding his agent. He wasn't sure when he first thought of Bond as his own, when things had developed so far beyond their control. Just rolling and crashing into the force that was James Bond, tasting scotch and bourbon. The man had been reckless since the Skyfall mission, and everyone could feel the storm behind the blue eyes and tailored suits.

Surprising then when the agent had seemed to anchor himself against Q. Six feet of muscle and rage returning to him again and again. God knows he had tried to resist, not wanting to be another notch in the agent's headboard. But he had been worn down, swept of his feet and pinned by those eyes. Silently pleading for Q to be different, both daring and begging him not to run away. So Q had stayed, losing himself.

Now his hope was running out.

He didn't know how long he had worked for. The hours had rolled by in a haze of tea and -god forbid- the odd cup of coffee. His assistants had left, the labs ready for the night crew. Groaning he pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes, stretching against the back of the chair. Just one clue he pleaded silently. "Q?" Glasses falling back into place he looked up through bleary eyes to see Tanner frowning down at him. "What are you still doing here?"  
"Working," his reply was stiff; the implied _fuck off_ hung in the air.  
"Go home."  
"Too much to do, things don't explode on their own...well not since double-oh three lost that pen," he clicked his tongue, still annoyed at losing such a valuable piece of equipment.

When Tanner didn't move Q suddenly realized this was not a friendly visit. "You can't be serious," he fumed, "surely M has more important things to worry about than whether or not I clock out on time?"  
Tanner raised an eyebrow, "You mean things such as one of his best agents going missing and the quartermaster running himself into the ground?" The man's voice was firm, as was the way he closed the lid of Q's laptop. "Go home, I won't ask you again."  
Q watched Tanner walk to the door, hand on the security panel, "Don't worry, we'll find him." It was said quickly, and before the younger man could reply, Tanner was gone.

"We'll find him," the words echoed around Q's brain as he stared out the window of the bus, London whizzing by. He wanted to believe the words, but he was no fool. Double-ohs had a surprisingly short life span; James Bond seemed to attract bullets. Trying for once to ignore his own thoughts he pulled his scarf tightly around his neck. Waiting for the bus to stop he stepped off, the bitter wind biting his cheeks. His thoughts turned to a cup of tea, and an empty house.

It wasn't until he had locked the door behind him and hung up his coat that he realized something was wrong. Moving as quietly as he could down the hallway he tried to figure out what was out of place. There was no sign of forced entry, but that was of little comfort. If someone was smart enough to figure out what he did and where he lived then they were smart enough to get into his house without breaking a window.

The fact that none of his personal alarms seemed to have been set off was a little more concerning. The floorboards groaned under him and he swore in frustration. Mind racing through all the possible ways he could get killed.  
"You'd make a lousy spy," a voice from the living room croaked. Q stopped thinking and stood up straight, not quite believing his ears. Striding forward he fumbled with the light switch, and soon found that he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Bond," he breathed, taking in sight of the broken man hunched on his sofa, an empty glass in hand. Q stood in the doorway, his brain trying to comprehend what was happening, but already assessing the damage. The agent's good eye struggled to adjust to the light; the other was swollen shit, a deep purple bruise covering the left side of his face. Scrapes and grazes peppered the man's face, a deep laceration in the hairline, dark blonde hair dirty with blood. The normally impeccable suit was rumpled and torn, the dark contrast of red blossomed against the once white shirt.

It was true that Q had seen the agent in much worse conditions; broken bones, hypothermia, gunshot wounds, the time he had refused sex as pay back for the agent losing a rather fine piece of equipment. But never had he seen Bond so closed in. Hunched shoulders seemed to scream at him, this was a man who was defeated.

"You could at least look happy to see me," Bond smirked and Q couldn't help the tears that sprung to his eyes, the lump forming in his throat. He blinked furiously, still in the doorway, voice hoarse, "I thought you were dead." The glass fell from the agent's glass, landing with a thud next to a considerably emptier bottle of scotch. Before Q was even aware that he was moving he is knelt in front of Bond, between his legs, wrapped in his agent's warmth. Strong arms circled around his back as Bond murmured comforts into his ear, and when the man's lips met his own, Q could feel the urgency.  
Bond's fingers trailed through Q's thick hair, drawing out a gasp from the younger man. Q fumbled quickly with un tucking Bond's shirt, desperate to feel warm flesh under cold fingers. But it was only when he managed to run his fingers up Bond's broad chest did the agent hiss out in pain.

Q pulled away, out of breath, but frowning as he unbuttoned the shirt, trying to ignore the bloodstain that was so hard to look away from. The fact that Bond did nothing to stop him made his heart race for all the wrong reasons. The man should be berating him, scolding him and generally telling Q to stop fussing over him. When at last he had finished with the last button he made a startled squeak, trying to compose himself.

"You need to go to the hospital," Bonds' chest was a battleground of purple bruises and red welts. A deep gash, which had been the source of the bloodstain, was still sluggishly trying to bleed. It was only now Q could hear the faint wheeze with every intake of breath. "No," It was a quiet growl and Q saw a flash of the old Bond, dangerous and deadly.  
"James," he tried to match the same tone, but knew he had failed when the agent's lips twitched.  
"I'll be fine, right as rain. Promise." Q placed his hands on Bond's knees, pushing against them to stand up, scowling as he did so.  
"You must think I'm an idiot."  
"Only some of the time, now, where we?"  
Adjusting his glasses he matched Bond's smirk, "I was just about to put the kettle on."  
"You used to be fun."  
"I was never fun Bond," he snorted before leaving to go to the kitchen.

Pottering around for a few minutes, getting mugs sorted he waited for the kettle to boil, and for his hands to stop shaking. Bond was alive; he's come home to Q. He would need to be debriefed, assessed, poked and prodded, but for now he was here, and safe. Pulling his phone from his pocket he fired off a quick text: **_package is safe, no permanent damage. Alert others- Q_.** Switching the phone off he dropped it on the counter. Tanner would have no need to them unless Bond needed urgent medical attention, and Q found that he did not want MI-6 to be around Bond. Q didn't want to see him hurt.

Q finished making the tea, and with one hand carried the two mugs by the handle, in the other hand he carried his well-stocked first aid box. Placing the mugs on the small wooden table he found himself once again scrutinizing double-oh seven. The man had finally uncurled, leaning back again the sofa, shirt still undone. His eyes were closed, breathing deeply. But Q could still make out the wheezing. This was the side no one was supposed to see. This was not MI-6's greatest weapon, the name the shadow feared. This was just a human, a life that meant so little to those in control of it. A weapon to be exploited. To Q he had become so much more.

Dropping to his knees in front of Bond he rummaged through the first aid box. Pulling out some antiseptic wipes, sterile dressing and tape. Carefully he began to clean the wound on Bond's chest. It most likely could have done with a few stitches, but short of Q dragging the man to the hospital, he knew this was next best thing.

"That tickles," Bond murmured.  
"Hmmmm, I'm sure you'd be laughing yourself silly if your ribs weren't broken."  
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit Q."  
"True, but then again I am in your presence double-oh seven." The banter eased some of the tension in the quartermaster's chest, even if the agent remained lifeless on his sofa.

Packing away his supplies he ran upstairs, grabbing one of the plain t-shirts Bond kept in his closet for emergencies. They took it slowly, easing the agent from his jacket and shirt; Q remained in front of Bond's knees, who in turn leant heavily into the quartermaster's chest. "You know, I'm not quite used to you helping me get dressed." Q rolled his eyes, t-shirt sliding over toned muscle. He couldn't help but place a soft kiss on Bond's head. Taking a moment to take it all in again, Bond really was here.

Once he had eased the man back on the sofa he bent down to remove the stiff shoes. There was nothing more he could do for the injuries. Sitting down next to Bond they waited in silence. Only their fingers brushed. "What happened out there James?" Q spoke quietly, but there was no response for a while, only the grabbing of Q's fingers, held tightly. "Who did you send after me?"  
Q blinked," How did you know? We assumed they found no trace of you."  
"Who did you send?"  
"Double-oh six and double-oh four." It was said with a bad taste in his mouth.  
"You shouldn't have sent them."  
Q shifted, turning to face Bond, not letting go of calloused fingers. "We had no choice, we had to find you. It was only meant to be a routine mission." Odd that he had to defend the actions of those trying to save his life.

Bond opened his good eyes and looked at Q. "They knew you would send those agents. They knew who I was and what I did, they knew what to expect. They made it personal."  
"Did you kill them?" Q demanded.  
"Yes."  
"All of them? I need you to be sure." _I can't lose you again, I won't lose you again._  
"Yes Q, all of them." Q slumped on the sofa; head resting on Bond's shoulder; exhaustion rolling over him in waves.  
"Good."

Q didn't know what times it was when he woke up next, just that he was lurched awake. Eyes flying open as frantic yells resounded around his living room. Pushing his glasses up he had no idea what to expect, had someone found them? Where was Bond? There was no gun in his house and had no idea if double-oh seven had managed to keep his intact.

Heart thudding in his chest he saw no visible threat. It was only when Bond let out another yell did Q look at them man beside him. Curled around the quartermaster's waist, hands grasping the material of his jumper. Knuckles turning white, lips moving rapidly. Q did the only thing his frazzled brain could come up with. He grabbed Bond's shoulders, shaking him as hard as he could. Bond shot up, throwing himself at Q, smothering him with his weight as they now lay on the sofa. Bond's arms wrapped around him, the man's face buried in Q's neck, his breathing short and labored. Bond's strong body shook on top. "You're here, you're here, you're here." Bond repeated.

Q hummed, managing to lift an arm and running a hand along Bond's back. "I'm fine, I'm here." _Getting crushed _he thought, but couldn't quite bring himself to say it yet. "James, it was just a nightmare, it's okay, everything is okay." He planted soft kisses on the agent's head. He felt Bond's body relax slightly and Q let him stay like that for a while, not that he could exactly throw him off. "They told me that they had you. That they were hurting you. That every hour I was silent was killing you. That I-I was killing you." Bond's voice broke as his spoke into Q's neck, shuddering despite the warmth of the house.

That is how they had made it personal and Q felt a rush of hatred towards those that had done this. He was not a violent man, despite the destruction and mayhem his weapons could cause. But he hoped that their deaths had been painful, that Bond had made them suffer. When he finally found his voice again, he could not keep the tremor from it. "Nobody had me; I'm perfectly healthy, aside from getting crushed. Now sit up you great oaf and let me see if you've opened that wound back up."

Bond did as he was told, drawing back and swinging long legs over the cushions. But he remained observing Q, as though it was the first time he had ever seen him. So lost and very alone, and Q could feel his heart break. He places his long fingers on Bond's cheeks, brushing the stubble and carefully kissed Bond's nose. Careful not hurt him, "I'm not leaving James. I promise." It was a foolish thing to say, he knew in their line of work it was a promise he could not keep. But as rough hands covered his own, and Bond lay his forehead against his, that sparkle returning, Q knew he would do all he could to keep that promise.

"Good, I'd hate to have to break in a new quartermaster."  
Q chuckled, "And heaven forbid I should find a new agent. One that returned his weapons, and didn't hassle me when I'm trying to work."  
"Don't forget about my perfectly formed arse, you'd miss that."  
This time Q let out a loud laugh, shaking his head as finally pulled away, going to check on Bond's wounds. Satisfied with the man's health Q stood up yawning. "Come on, I don't fancy sleeping on the sofa."

They moved upstairs to the bedroom, Q quickly stripped down before pulling on his pajama bottoms, ignoring the way Bond watched him, a mixture of longing and lust. Helping the agent remove his trousers they settled down and Q let out a sigh as Bond drew him into his warmth.

* * *

**Two part story. After that I'll be taking suggestions if anyone wants to give me any little prompts. Enjoy**


End file.
